


The List

by jupiterslifelessmoons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, it's just angsty fluff, mycroft's a good big brother, okay i think i'm covered, the only thing i ever write, tw for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 10:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13212297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jupiterslifelessmoons/pseuds/jupiterslifelessmoons
Summary: Looking after Sherlock is a full time job that’s sometimes more emotionally taxing than singlehandedly running the British government.





	The List

It was the third time that week.

Mycroft had acted angry, the first two times, when there had been someone coherent to be angry at.

Now, there was not.

Rain was coming down in droves, but he hardly noticed. He just squinted through it, blinking the water away. He did not lose sight of the alleyway. He was soaked to the bone by the time he got there, ever present umbrella dangling forgotten from his hand.

His brother was huddled in the shadows beside a set of brick steps, as oblivious to the rain as Mycroft. He was shivering, but not from cold.

Mycroft knelt beside him on the wet concrete. “Sherlock?”

Nothing. The pale, expressive eyes were fixed on something in the middle distance.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered gently, and his head turned. He blinked, trying to focus his gaze. “Myc-Mycroft?”

Mycroft hid his intake of breath as Sherlock struggled to force his body into normal responses. “I-I’m cold.” His eyes fluttered shut. “So cold.”

Mycroft closed his own eyes for a moment, and then reached out to pull Sherlock to his feet. “Let’s get you home.”

Sherlock could walk, barely. Mycroft managed to get him to the car. His brother shuddered against him the whole way, though whether in pleasure or agony it was impossible to tell.

He kept trying to speak on the drive, possibly, Mycroft thought, to describe a world otherwise unseen. But he never got far enough to be specific. Mycroft thought that was probably best.

When they got to 221B, Mrs. Hudson only bit her lip and then dashed off to make tea. “Take him up, dear, and check all the usual places…John’s been on holiday…” she called from the kitchen. There was more than a hint of a sigh in her voice.

Mycroft dragged Sherlock into his room with some difficulty. He removed Sherlock’s dripping coat, and his own, and threw them in a heap on the floor. Sherlock had sunk into the bed of his own accord, shaking harder than before. Mycorft pointedly turned away from his brother’s weakness and started a methodical search of the room. He found two bags, one near empty. Both went out the window.

Finally, he turned to Sherlock. “Where?”

Sherlock looked as though he was trying to decide whether or not to be ashamed. “Left front pocket,” he mumbled.

Mycroft searched through the pile of wet fabric until he came up with a sheet of saturated paper, beginning to tear, ink beginning to bleed. “Oh…Sherlock.”

Sherlock pressed his face into the pillow. “I’m sorry, okay?” he growled.

Mycroft closed his eyes, unprepared for the sudden strong rush of emotion against his carefully fortified walls. “Sherlock,” he said again, as though hoping to find an answer in the two syllables that meant his wreck of a brother. He forced himself to open his eyes, to look.

Sherlock was still shaking, badly. “I’m cold, Mycroft…” he murmured into the pillow. “So cold…why am I so cold?”

Because you’re a mess. An adrenaline junkie. A self-indulgent, self-destructive mess, Mycroft did not say.

Instead, he climbed in carefully next to his brother and pulled the comforter onto him, and cradled Sherlock’s head against his shoulder. He was rigid with cold, breathing much too fast, staring at nothing. “Shh,” Mycroft whispered into the frenzied panting. “Sleep it off.”

Sherlock blinked. The tears, drug induced or otherwise, thudded softly into the clean sheets. Mycroft brushed them away, stroked his brother’s sweat soaked curls. “Sleep for me, alright?”

“Okay,” Sherlock mumbled. “I can do that, at least.”

**Author's Note:**

> This being a fic that I got an idea for at approximately one AM, woke up, speedwrote, and then forgot about for a while. Eventually I edited it and posted it to Wattpad. I’m happy to bring it to you now.


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